A Darker Shade of Love
by Caitlin Robbins
Summary: When it comes to love, don't we all go a little crazy? Psychiatric intern Dr. Harleen Quinzel volunteered for a therapy session with the Joker and got in deeper than she bargained for. A Suicide Squad fan fiction, set pre-movie, and semi AU to the movie, and comics.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note – It's been a while since I've written a fanfic so I may be a little rusty. A little of the dialogue between Quinzel and Leland is originally from 'Batman – Mad Love and other stories' by Paul Dini and Bruce Timm and adapted for my story. I love the graphic novel; 'Mad Love' being one of my favorite Harley Quinn stories, and when rereading it, it sparked the idea for my story. I thought it would work in well with setting up the beginning.

Summary - When it comes to love, don't we all go a little crazy? Psychiatric intern Dr. Harleen Quinzel volunteered for a session with the Joker and got in deeper than she bargained for. A Suicide Squad fanfiction, set pre-movie, and semi AU to the movie and comics.

* * *

 **A Darker Shade of Love**

 **Chapter 1**

The leaves were changing, green skins tainted with reds, yellows, and browns. The fall air carried a chill, and the promise of winter. Feeling a buzz of nerves and excitement, Doctor Harleen Quinzel paid the cab driver and grabbed her briefcase. Buttoning up her coat Harleen stared at the large, looming structure. Iron gates towered above her, the sign 'Arkham Asylum' stood high in its bold, black lettering. Arkham Asylum, located just outside of Gotham City, housed some of the most dangerous, insane criminals Gotham, and the world, had ever known.

The autumn breeze tousled through her hair and Harleen tucked loose, blonde strands behind her ear. She'd been waiting for this for so long. Today was her first day, a big deal for the scholarship girl from humble beginnings. Straightening her shoulders and taking a deep breath, she climbed the stone steps.

At the entrance, Harleen pressed the buzzer, announcing her presence to the electronic-sounding voice crackling through the speaker. The heavy wooden doors opened seconds later. A security officer, suited, and wearing an ear piece, came to greet her. 'Officer Jones', his badge read, escorted her to the administration's office. Inside, the building was dreary and orderly, people in suits and white coats milled around with files. There was no indication of the madness these walls held. No immediate signs of the murderous patients that were sent there.

After filing out the necessary paperwork, Harleen shed her woolen jacket and donned her white doctor's coat. She pinned her ID and security badge to the front of the crisp material. Feeling the elating swell of pride, she straightened the glasses on her nose.

"Harleen Quinzel, I presume."

Harleen turned to face Dr. Joan Leland, the chief psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum.

"It's a pleasure, Dr. Leland," Harleen stretched out her hand and gave the doctor a beaming smile. "I've read your work; it was really interesting and insightful."

Dr. Leland shook her hand, but didn't return the same warmth, her mouth remaining in a fixed line.

"Thank you so much for meeting with me," Harleen continued, in effort to fill the silence.

"Well, you were fairly insistent," the doctor replied dryly.

Harleen's uncertainty flushed the smile from her face. Peeling her hand from her superior's, she let it rest with the other on the handle of her briefcase. She always knew she wanted to intern at Arkham. She wanted to cure the incurable. It had taken many calls and letters to get the go-ahead.

It became apparent that the middle-aged woman hadn't risen to her place of power with smiles and friendly chatter. In a mostly-male orientated profession, she had adopted a firm no-nonsense attitude. She worked the hours, got results, and demanded respect. From her stellar reputation within the field it was clear to see she was no-one's friend, but she was firm and fair. Harleen admired those traits and secretly aspired to be every bit as good as Leland.

"Come," Leland said. "I'll show you around."

The beginning of the tour was standard and uneventful; offices, labs, conference rooms, and the breakroom. Dr. Leland introduced Harleen to a number of personnel she'd be working alongside. The two strolled through a maze of rooms and corridors. The mundane surroundings reminded Harleen of her time at Gotham State University.

Slowly rumbles of lunacy and contained chaos crept forward in the quiet environment. Harleen thought she heard the cries from inside one of the electroconvulsive therapy rooms. She didn't subscribe to the method but understood its merits. She'd read the ECT rooms at Arkham were sound-proofed, so as not to upset the other patients, but that horrible aguish was hard to contain.

In the belly of the asylum, the guards wore helmets and armor. Armed with guns and batons on their belts, they were a far cry from Officer Jones situated at the front entrance. Keys and codes were now needed to pass through one section and to the next. Riots were frequent and each area was cordoned and secured in effort to contain them.

"Good morning, Doctor," the guard at the gates said in greeting. Despite his hulking size and heavy armor, he had rich, brown eyes and a kind smile.

"Morning Riggs! And how are they?" Leland's head nodded to the prisoners beyond.

"So far, so good, ma'am."

"Glad to hear it. Sergeant Riggs is one of the best we've got."

"Tim Riggs," Riggs held out his hand to Harleen. "Welcome to the mad house."

"Harleen Quinzel." Given his twinkling humor, and the fact Leland seemed at ease to praise him, something she suspected to happen rarely, Harleen liked him instantly.

Riggs unlocked the gates and the two women stepped into the ward. Harleen sensed the change of atmosphere. The air was thick, charged with dormant insanity. Shouts and murmurs travelled from the shadows. This was the area Harleen wanted to see.

The number of cameras had increased; the miniscule pieces of expensive technology roamed, watching closely from their vantage points inches below the high ceilings. It was hard to fathom, given the investment in Arkham's top notch security, why there were so many escapes. Riots came as part of the territory, but seeing the security measures first hand Harleen was surprised at the stats of successful jailbreaks.

"I must admit I was surprised you wanted to intern here at Arkham." Inmates wandered up to the barred barriers. They blew kisses, reached through the bars, and made obscene gestures as the women passed. Leland ignored them. "Anyone who had gone through med school with your high grades could've written her ticket anywhere."

"Yes well, I've always had this attraction for extreme personalities. They're more exciting," Harleen caught Leland's questioning look and added, "and more challenging."

"And more high profile?" Leland snorted in response. With a smile to another guard, the turn of his key and the screech heavy door, she passed through, Harleen following behind.

Guards flanked every available space of the graying exterior. All of the patients had their own small cell; state of art, no expense was spared in keeping them, and the asylum's personnel, secured.

"You can't deny there's an element of glamour to these super criminals."

The woman turned abruptly. "I'll warn you right now: these are hard core psychotics. They'd just as soon kill you as look at you."

Harleen remained silent, absorbing Leland's warning, before gazing away. Her ears aware of the murmurs of the patients around her. She stared at the individuals behind the glass, some pressed their faces up to the barrier of their cells. They all wanted to get a good look at the new doctor in their midst.

 _Fresh meat,_ Harleen thought with a shudder.

"You know; I've met people like you before…. If you're thinking about cashing in on them, by writing a tell-all book, think again."

"I would never do such a thing."

Harleen's eyes wandered to the last cell on the right. She left Leland where she stood, her heels clacking on the hard floor. The individual inside wore the same drab clothes as the other patients, but it was the vivid green hair, bleached skin, and wide, painted smile that set him apart, and held her attention.

The Joker.

The worst of the worst. The incurable.

He was humming to himself. His back pressed up against the wall. Unlike the other inmates, he seemed oblivious to what was going on. Ignorant to the fact that there was a new doctor here to analyze him and the others.

"Ah yes! The infamous Joker. He'd eat a novice like you for breakfast." Leland came to stand just behind her.

The Joker cocked his head at the mention of his name, his eyes meeting with Harleen's. His exaggerated red smile widened in its metal greeting.

"Come, I'll show you to your office." Leland was keen to steer Harleen away from the Joker.

Harleen felt heat rise at her cheeks, cursing a momentary lapse in her professionalism. In one of her early letters to Leland she'd requested to study the Joker, and the plea, of course, had been quashed.

"A pleasure," the Joker purred with a wink to Harleen.

Crazed laughter echoed behind them. Riggs pulled the barred door back and Leland led the intern away.

To be continued….

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Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note – Thank you for the interest and feedback. I'm happy people seem to be enjoying my story so far.

 **A Darker Shade of Love**

 **Chapter 2**

The remainder of Harleen's first day dragged to a close. Except for the tour around the building, the time had been uneventful; filled with paperwork and meeting people. Her face was sore from all the smiles she'd given, and her feet ached in her ill-advised, newly purchased, heels.

Keen to head home to a hot, bubble bath, she walked the quiet corridor to her office. She opened the door, flicking on the lights. Her colleagues had already left for the day. She shared an office with two other interns. Her desk was small and pushed up in a space next to a filing cabinet. She hadn't had time to put her own individual stamp on it, so the single red rose sitting in a tiny, glass vase caught her by surprise.

She moved toward the delicate object. There was a note tied to the fragile, green stem. She lifted it with her fingers.

'It was nice meeting you. Come down and see me some time. – J.'

Harleen held the thick, white card in her hand, studying the words. The writing was scrawled in purple marker. The script was manic. She didn't really expect any less. She absent-mindedly ran her fingers through her hair. A silly girlish gesture she'd chastise herself for later.

Was it really from him? Or was someone playing a trick on her? An initiation of some kind?

She didn't think so. The interns had barely said two words to her; too wrapped up in their assigned cases, and working their way into Leland's good books, to be messing with her. And besides, Leland hadn't mentioned Harleen's escapade so she doubted they even knew she'd met the Joker.

Which begged the question how had he gotten the flower up here? Without being seen? And why? Had she really made an impression on him? Or was he just toying with her?

Harleen couldn't report this to Leland. Or anyone else. Throughout her career, she'd encountered too many who firmly believed she got by solely on her looks. Tall, young, and blonde, it was her cross to bear. She wanted to be taken seriously, letting anyone know the Joker had sent her flowers wouldn't help her cause.

She grabbed her coat and briefcase. Then the rose. She couldn't leave it to be seen. She didn't want to throw it away either.

Harleen didn't date much, and it was a long time since any man gave her flowers. The fact that the rose was from a psychotic killer seemed a little sad. Yet, it wasn't mere loneliness that made her take the flower.

Concealing it in the deep safety of a coat pocket, Harleen left the office. Maybe she saw the rose as a tiny step towards getting through to the man that refused to indulge his doctors, or give them an inch. Maybe it would serve as a clue as to what made him tick. She'd encountered the Joker for just a minute or so, and yet he'd gone through the trouble to send her the rose.

It was a starting point. Harleen left Arkham Asylum feeling content. It was a nice feeling to round off her first day.

* * *

Her apartment was located in the heart of Gotham City. Not in one of the best neighborhoods, her salary wouldn't allow it, but certainly not in the worst either. The apartment building was six stories high, its exterior old, with a gothic style. She'd moved in during her sophomore year of college, and it'd been home ever since.

Harleen lived on the top floor, with a snug balcony overlooking the city. The elevator was permanently out of order, so she took the stairs, wincing, every step pinching at her toes.

Once she reached the top floor, she groaned in relief. Her door was the last one down the murky corridor. Her neighbors were nice, quiet, young professionals, and kept to themselves. The landlord, Ethan, fifty–two, geeky, and slightly overweight lived in the apartment next to hers. He flirted with her shamelessly but he was harmless and had a good heart. In the five years she'd lived there, he'd never once raised the rent. Plus, he would fix anything that broke at the drop of a hat. As landlords went, Ethan was a pretty good one.

Turning the key, Harleen nudged the door open and flicked on the lights. She hung her keys on their hook and with great glee kicked of the high heels. With great care she placed the rose, still intact in its vase, on top of the little table by the door. The rhythmic plod of paws sounded on the hardwood floor behind her.

"Hey boy! Momma's home," Harleen knelt to stroke the fur of her German Shephard named Spinee. The rescue dog, slightly small for his age, had been left in a dumpster as a puppy. By chance, Harleen was visiting the pound the same weekend he'd arrived. She'd fallen in love with tiny, scruffy dog no-one wanted and brought him home.

Her one-bedroom apartment was small but cozy. The lounge and kitchen made up one open space. The bedroom and bathroom were separated off by a tiny hallway. She kept the place neat and tiny, partly because she liked it that way, and partly because clutter looked worse in the modest area. She'd acquired furniture from thrift shops and antique stores. She loved to spend her days off searching for bargains and one-off treasures. Her pictures and ornaments were found at local art shows, and souvenirs from the places she'd visited.

"Let's get you some dinner." At the mere mention of food, Spinee scampered off, leaving Harleen to follow. She fixed his dinner, setting a bowl and fresh water down in their usual place. Spinee demolished the meal, before she'd gone about picking hers out.

Long hours didn't allow her much time for cooking, she lived on frozen meals for one, or she'd order in, if she felt like splashing out. Tonight she tugged a cardboard container of Chinese chicken noodles from the freezer and set in whirling in the microwave.

While she waited, Harleen moved to boot up her laptop. Her desk, piled high with files and textbooks, stood next to the window with the best view her apartment offered. Given the amount of time she spent sitting there she wanted something nice to look at.

After logging in to her computer, she went to collect her meal and a glass of wine. Spinee, now done eating, settled down beside her.

Harleen ate her dinner while replying to various emails. One, a reminder from Gotham Dating, to 'sign in and meet our new singles ready to mingle', pulled her mind back to the rose she'd brought home with her. Setting her noodles aside, she traipsed over to where she'd deposited it. She carried to the desk, set it down, and logged into her account.

Gotham Dating boasted a reputation of being the city's number one dating site. It claimed to have the best record of matching couples, who went on to form long term relationships, marriages, and families.

Occasionally the pangs of loneliness hit, and Harleen would log on. She'd been on dates with her 'matches'. On-screen they were perfect, in person they were every bit as smart, kind, and handsome, but she never felt a spark.

Harleen was a romantic at heart. She wanted fireworks, she wanted to lose herself in love. Secretly she believed love wasn't something that could be analyzed, predicted, or matched. She suspected that's why all these perfect, wonderful dates never amounted to anything.

Despite her better judgment, she clicked the private messages button. Keith Rodgers, a vet, who claimed to love old movies, jazz, and dancing in the rain, had been trying to convince her to go on a date. They'd hit it off, they'd talked privately via messenger. He was funny, and she liked that. They hadn't talked in a while. She'd been preparing for her internship. But he'd left her a message, asking her to dinner this Friday.

She should accept it. She had to reason not to. Yet she hesitated. Her eyes fell to the reddish, pink petals of the rose. When had the magic of dating faded into something of an obligation? No longer in the mood for the noodles, she rested the fork in the container. She let her fingertip of her index finger trace the delicate flower. Love, for her, should be crazy, wild, all-encompassing. She didn't want to be stuck in a boring, comfortable, marriage like her mother.

Love wasn't an equation.

Keith Rodgers, though she'd never met him, wasn't going to be the one. She just knew it.

Mind made up, she logged off, and closed the lid of the laptop. A strong, confident woman like herself didn't sit waiting for love. Or try to ensnare it by visiting dating sites. Love would find her.

Satisfied she was taking a positive step towards finding true happiness, she collected her plate and wine glass. She placed the plate in the dishwasher and poured more wine. Taking the glass with her, she padded to the bathroom.

Turning on the taps, she tossed in lavender bubble bath and bath salts. She looped her hair into a messy bun, too tired to worry about the hassle of having to dry it afterwards. With the water filling the porcelain tub she moved to the bedroom, undressing and grabbing her robe. She plucked up the new romance novel from its place on her nightstand. After a long day, she enjoyed an easy read, and the guarantee of a happy ending.

Harleen plunged into a bath of hot water and lavender scented bubbles. She breathed out a low sigh of contentment. Candles were strategically placed around the tub. Her book and glass of red wine at the ready beside her.

* * *

Tim Riggs hated the night shift. Nights were prone to craziness of the worst kind. The numbers of death, simply a harsh reality at Arkham Asylum, were higher during the dark hours. The inmates were all the more dangerous it seemed under the cloak of blackness and the white moonlight.

Stifling a yawn with his fist, Riggs left his desk to grab a coffee and do his hourly checks. Though there were cameras watching each, and every cell, and all the dark corners, he still liked to see for himself that all was secure on his watch. He didn't like surprises, certainly not when he was in this nut house.

He'd been on shift since the break of dawn; now covering someone who'd called in sick. Will no one to fill in, naturally, it fell to him, a superior officer, to step up. He didn't mind. With Christmas coming, and being a single parent of a nine-year-old girl, he appreciated the extra cash. He wanted to give his daughter a great Christmas. He just wished it wasn't a damned night shift.

Strolling over to the vending machine, he fed it a handful of quarters, making his selection.

Sipping the bitter tar-like substance, which was only palatable because of his hue of fatigue, Riggs made his way to the heavy, iron gates. The sound of keys jangling in the door sent fresh waves of anticipation and bellows from the guys still awake in their cells. Though, given the noise and activity, Riggs understood why many didn't sleep. He didn't understand how any of them could close their eyes knowing who else lived among them.

Despite the rumbles of unrest, there was nothing out of the ordinary to report, and Riggs walked up to the Joker's cell. For some reason he didn't truly understand, Riggs always found himself ending up there, watching him.

The Joker never moved around much, not like the others, but he didn't seem to sleep either. He'd sit on his bed, and plot. Or stand against the wall and plot. Always plotting.

After the Joker's last attempted jailbreak, the doctors had changed his medication. They'd increased his ECT treatments also. Now the Joker seemed more subdued. Seemingly less dangerous.

He didn't buy it.

Riggs despised him. In all his years working at Arkham, he'd never come across a patient he hated more. _A patient_ , there was a sick sense of irony, if ever he'd heard one. Calling the Joker, a patient. Hell, they should call him what he was; an insane killer.

If it wasn't for his ethics, and his need to keep this job, Riggs would pull out his gun and he'd shoot the Joker where he sat.

"Just give me a reason, Mr J. Just give me a reason."

Riggs spoke the words aloud, and for a moment he thought he saw the Joker move. He thought he was going to get a reaction or a response. But it never happened. The Joker remained fixed in his place on the mattress. Lost in whatever scheme he was cooking up.

* * *

Thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note – Thank you to everyone who's shown an interest, and support, in this story. It means a lot to know people are enjoying what I have written so far. This is my first Joker chapter and I gotta say it was a whole lot of fun to write.

I am away on vacation until September 12, though I have the next chapter written (just needing editing), and chapter 5 half written, so hopefully I can continue to update roughly once a week.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **A Darker Shade of Love**

 **Chapter 3**

Knowledge was currency in this crazy joint. The doctors liked to keep news of the outside world a secret. Joker had guys on the outside. Business to attend to. These doctors pranced around like they owned the place. Like they owned him. The guards were just as bad, they didn't waltz around drugged up on their own glory, but they didn't hide their contempt for him either.

To the guards and the doctors, Joker, and the others were property of the state, locked away and worthless. Forced to wear off-white, neutral clothing, they could easily blend in with the graying walls. Stripped of all individuality, they were to be rehabilitated, cured of madness. Or if not, they could rot away in the asylum.

The one puzzle that had the doctors, guards, and those higher on the chain of command, flummoxed was how did their defenses get weakened and punctured.

The guards thought they saw everything. With their fancy cameras, and their vast, armored numbers patrolling the halls, they firmly believed they had the inmates contained.

They didn't. What went on between the shadows would shatter their false sense of security. The murmurs of activity, the secrets passed amongst the killers and the crooks, would make the guards run home to their mommas.

The guards weren't safe amongst the madmen. They weren't safe amongst each other. That was the funniest part.

Everyone had a price. A cynical answer to the never-ceasing numbers of riots and escapes. But the fact was proven true time and time again. The security wasn't as tight, or as just, as they'd like to believe. Guards could be bought to look the other way, to leave a gate open, or to turn off a camera or two. In exchanging a fat wad of cash, and promising not to kill them when he got free, Joker could get a message to Frost, and his henchmen, if he so wished. These little carrier pigeons were useful on occasion.

Joker felt Sergeant Riggs' eyes burn into his back, interrupting his musing mind. The idle, wordless threat tickled at his ear.

"Just give me a reason, Mr J. Just give me a reason."

Sometimes, Riggs spoke his promise, and sometimes he just thought it. Joker really hoped the man would keep his promise.

Sergeant Riggs, Big Rigg, as Joker called him, liked to visit. More than any guard, Big Rigg would come and have these little, one-way conversations after lights out. Threaten him, and then walk away like it had never been heard, and wouldn't be remembered.

 _Think again, Big Rigg! Think again!_

With winter on its way, and more people were calling in sick with colds and the flu, it felt like Riggs never left. But Big Rigg never touched him. During his time at Arkham, Joker had never suffered a beating from Big Rigg. Probably because he didn't have the guts to unleash all the pent up anger.

Sure it could be justified that Big Rigg was holding back because he was a senior officer. He had to lead by example. But there was more to it. Joker could feel it. Big Rigg didn't like him one bit. Fire and fury burned beneath the bulky, seemingly-calm exterior of senior officer.

To his credit, Big Rigg hid it well. The doctors thought Big Rigg was a standup guy. They bought into his nice guy façade. It took a person who'd felt that anger, and that fury, to recognize it in another. Joker could almost feel it, could almost taste it, whenever Big Rigg came for one of his unscheduled visits.

He was a ticking clock. Joker really wanted to be around for when Big Rigg went off.

His footsteps echoed down the corridor, leaving Joker alone with his thoughts once more.

 _Lesson number one, Sergeant Riggs_ , Joker never forgives and he never forgets. When he busted out of this place, Big Rigg would be the first to die.

Joker lay stretched out on his scratchy, thin mattress, staring up at a gray, stained ceiling. His eyes roamed the mottled plaster, and he rested his hands across his stomach. He listened to the hammering against the bullet-proof windows in the cell next door. His cellmate, the cannibal, was rambling on.

He wished these people had the good sense to keep their thoughts to themselves. Babbling the innermost workings of the mind got you in trouble. Got you locked up and analyzed. The irony.

Joker was bored. Nights were the worst. Long, black, with no one interesting to play with.

Most slept. Joker didn't like to. He preferred to be alert and know where those nosy cameras were.

He went to dark places in his dreams. Dark places that got him all wound up and excited. And then he'd wake up in this hole. Better to stay awake.

The cannibal was crying now. Just like last night. Same routine. Shouting, banging against the glass, and then crying. A high pitched wail. A grown man shouldn't sound like that.

The cannibal used to be good and quiet, falling asleep at lights out, and sleeping until morning. Then a week ago, he'd gotten the bright idea to bite one of the interns, earning himself a beating, and several rounds of ECT. The cannibal had been returned to his cell three days ago, and hadn't let up with the racket since.

Joker knew he'd have to listen to this until morning. If he wasn't locked up, he'd wrap his hands around the cannibal's neck and squeeze until there was nothing but silence.

Time was a fickle bitch. His enemy and his ally.

Now he'd gone and got himself all worked up. Rage, sweet, murderous rage coursed through him. His body grew rigid.

He let his mind drift to Dr. Quinzel. She'd caused quite the stir during her first week. She was on everyone's lips. She, colorful, and memorable compared to the usual drab graduates Leland brought in, was a hot topic for the caged madmen.

The cannibal had said she was good enough to eat. Not helping!

The Joker clenched his fists. Self-control was such a bitch. On the outside, self-control was never an issue, simply because he could do whatever the hell he pleased. If he wanted to kill the cannibal for interrupting his 'me time', he could. Killing and maiming were allowed, and expected of him. But in here, acting on impulse was quickly stopped and punished. A lack of self-control usually resulted in a trip to the ECT rooms. Electro-convulsion therapy seemed to be Leland's favorite weapon against him. He hated it. It destroyed his ruined mind even more. And it made him sleep.

The doctors liked to mess with his medication; to make his head all dumb and fuzzy. They liked to control those chemicals swimming through his bloodstream. They wanted to neuter him, cure him of all his violent impulses. And if they could, they wanted to understand his warped mind.

The Joker howled with laughter. It'd probably bring Big Rigg back. But he couldn't stop himself. He didn't care that the cannibal's wails went up a notch. It was all too funny. Too genius.

The punchline was diabolical. He was playing the doctors and the guards at their own game. By some bizarre stroke of luck, Leland's newly prescribed medication barely touched him. It didn't cloud his mind, didn't make him dumb and drooling, and barely cloaked his violent tendencies. He felt like himself for the first time in months. The pills made him feel nauseous at times, but he'd take the sickness if he could think clearly.

They were just like popping medicinal candy. Cover them in chocolate and he'd buy them.

He didn't understand it but he sure wasn't going to give the game away. The joke was all these professionals were none the wiser.

He was having a blast, acting the part of a numb psychotic. Time may be a bitch, and waiting might suck, but he was a lion waiting to strike. No, scratch that, he was a hyena. A hyena dressed to blend in with the bleached walls, waiting to go for the jugular.

Big Rigg would be the first to die. And the weeping cannibal. Then he'd tear this place apart.

* * *

Morning came, the sun rising from the cloudy depths without incident, and Riggs clocked out. He was out of the building in a hot second. This place, and the inmates, got to your head if you weren't careful. The air in Arkham Asylum was heavy, clammy, and it seemed to coat the skin with an invisible, sticky ooze. Riggs always showered once he got home.

Outside in the parking lot, he lit up a cigarette, and pressed his back up against the brick wall. He took a long, much-needed drag, silently promising to quit after Christmas. Tattered, brown leaves scattered past him, the chilling fall wind swirling close behind.

He was looking forward to breakfast at Wendy's. Going to the little diner, one block over, was becoming a morning ritual with the night shifts he was covering. Not good for his waist-line, and another habit he'd correct in January. At Wendy's, he'd order an all-day breakfast and read the paper, before heading home to sleep until noon.

Then he'd collect his daughter, Lily, from school. He was thankful to his mother who took care of Lily when he had to work. He didn't know what he'd do with either of them. His mother had been his rock, and Lily, his reason to live, since Carly had been taken away from him.

The throaty roar of a motorbike sounded in the distance. Riggs inhaled another hit, the sound growing louder. He watched the heavy, iron gates pull back, a bike peeling its way through, and coming towards him. He didn't know any member of staff who owned a motorbike.

The bike rider was a woman. Riggs could tell from the slight frame, and the blonde hair whispering in the wind. A sad pang of regret hit; Carly had ridden a bike. She had done all through college, and up until she got pregnant.

He pushed the thoughts down and approached the rider. He was surprised when he saw it was Harleen Quinzel under the helmet.

"Dr. Quinzel? I didn't know you rode?"

The intern turned to him and smiled. She must have been wearing contacts. She looked all the lovelier without her glasses.

"Nice bike."

"Thanks! You ride?"

"I used to."

"Used to?"

"Long story."

Harleen nodded but didn't pry. It didn't take a head doctor to understand that it was a painful topic. "You headed home?"

"Yeh. So you came back. Most interns quit within a week. I'm impressed!"

Harleen smiled just a little. "I didn't know anyone was keeping track."

"It's a running joke; How long interns survive the battle-axe." He was only half-joking, Leland had a reputation of putting interns through their paces, and making some quit.

"Battle-axe?"

"Leland."

"She's tough. But I can handle her."

Riggs smiled. In one-week, Dr. Quinzel had clocked more hours than any other intern. Working night shifts he'd seen she was the last to leave. She worked hard on the assignments Leland lumped her with. She didn't complain, not from what he'd seen or heard; he didn't believe Leland would crack Quinzel.

"Listen, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." He stubbed out the cigarette.

"if I wanted to gain access to CCTV footage of the inmates how would I go about it?"

"Is there a problem?"

"No!" She smiled to emphasize everything was fine. "Nothing like that. I'm putting together a proposal for a study I'd like to conduct while I'm here."

"Okay, all proposals would have to be given the go ahead by Leland and Dr. Arkham. But if you catch me on shift this week I'll see what can do getting you in a room to view the tapes."

"Okay. Thanks."

"No problem." Riggs hesitated before continuing. "So, I was thinking maybe we could go for a drink sometime? After work maybe?"

Harleen opened her mouth to reply, her eyes were focused on the wedding band.

He smiled sadly, looking down at the platinum ring. "My wife, Carly, died almost two years ago. Friends is all I can handle." He barely spoke about Carly at work, especially not to someone he barely knew, but something about Harleen Quinzel put him at ease. She kind of reminded him of his kid sister.

"I…," Harleen faltered. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"That's okay. I just figured you could use a friend."

"That sounds great," Harleen said and meant it; between Leland, the interns, and the inmates, a friend sounded good. Arkham Asylum could be a lonely place.

* * *

To be continued….


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note - Sorry this update was a little while in coming. The internet wasn't as great as I'd hoped while I was away on vacation. Anyhow, here's chapter 4, and chapter 5 should be up later this week.

Thanks again for all the interest and feedback for my story. It means a lot!

* * *

 **A Darker Shade of Love**

 **Chapter 4**

"Good morning, Mister J. And how are we this morning?" Officer Frank, balding, and approaching fifty, called, while banging on the glass barrier with his baton.

"We're good," Joker drawled. Why the assumption that all crazy people heard voices? There was no one else in his head. _Just me, myself, and I, Frankie Boy._ He chuckled in spite of himself.

He detested Frank; Frank was an impotent little troll on a power trip. Frank, always accompanied by the same two Neanderthals, would give at least half of Joker's food ration to the fat, wailing cannibal next-door, and then tell him so with great delight.

"Time for your session with Leland."

"Oh goody!" A session with Leland meant a second meeting with that drab intern she led around by the collar. Dr. Jackson Phelps, the pimply faced, former frat boy who'd attended Princeton, chomped at the high heels of greatness.

"You don't have to sound so happy about it." Frank typed in a random series of numbers at the door's keypad. The door bleeped, allowing them access.

"Okay," Frank continued on his monotone voice. His two lapdogs brought up the rear. "You know the drill, face up against the far wall. Hands at the back of your head."

Joker had gone through the routine more times than he could count. Prancing to the back of the cell, making an exaggerated show of being compliant. He waited, nose pressed against the plaster, while the guards exercised all due caution, before creeping in. and roughly securing his hands together.

It amused him. The guards believed he'd strike now? Why? They carried Tasers set to the max. They were armed with guns, batons, and outnumbered him three to one. There was no point unless he had a full-proof, guaranteed way of escape.

In the beginning, he'd been uncooperative; he'd put up a fight and land a few good shots, before being beaten down to the ground by several brutes. He'd learned the fun of insubordination was short lived. The real fun and satisfaction came from playing these control freaks at their own games.

"Oh that tickles," Joker said to the young man, Officer Dennings, at his right. Dennings hesitated in his task of securing Joker's hands in cuffs. The young, inexperienced officers were fun. They were easy to make nervous. Without Frank beside him, Joker bet he could have a whole lot of fun with Dennings.

* * *

Joker's favorite thing about therapy sessions was being let out of the tiny cell. He may be strapped and fully-restrained to a wheelchair, but he was out. Being chauffeured along the corridors wasn't so bad. The change of scenery was refreshing; rejuvenating to someone bidding his time.

Along the journey to the therapy suites, the guards would stop, chatting to colleagues, while passing through each barricaded section.

Joker peered through the windows at every opportunity. He missed the outside. Missed freedom. Missed free-roaming chaos. Sure, Arkham was full of crazed lunatics, and contained chaos, but he wanted the kind of chaos that burned and blazed out of control.

They'd stopped again. Frank was babbling on about his plans for the weekend. That's when he saw _her_ out of a window overlooking the car park. He cocked his head to the side, studying her through the glass.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was talking with Big Rigg. She looked different to how she had on that first day. Today, she was dressed in a leather biker jacket, dark jeans, and knee-high boots. Her hair was free its tight bun, left to flow in silky blonde waves. Free and wild; he liked it that way. It suited her. He liked her in leather and jeans a whole lot more than he'd liked that stiff suit she'd arrived in last week.

 _Dr. Quinzel, you are quite the surprise_.

He uttered an involuntary chuckle; he still slipped sometimes. He couldn't help himself. Frank eyeballed him, and he threw a killer stare back at the pompous little troll. If he wasn't chained to this wheelchair, old Officer Frank wouldn't be so cocky.

Frank went on chattering, and Joker steered his mind back to Dr. Quinzel.

The pretty and proper lady doctor had a wild side. An interesting development.

He liked wild. He liked wild a whole lot.

Inconveniently, Frank began steering him through another set of corridors, but Joker's head stayed with Quinzel.

He remembered a man he'd known a long time ago; a man who now rotted in the black depths of the Hudson. He didn't recall the man's name but it didn't matter. The man had shared a nugget of wisdom about women and motorbikes. He'd said that a little girl whose daddy didn't buy her that pony she always wanted, ended up wanting a motorbike instead when she got older.

Harley; he nicknamed her Harley. So fitting now he knew she rode a motorcycle.

Princess Harley didn't get that pony. She had daddy issues.

Joker could relate.

* * *

Officer Frank and his cronies left him strapped to a plastic chair in therapy room 3B. 3B was as bland and boring as all the other rooms, but some of those rooms had windows. This one didn't. Dr. Leland knew he liked to watch people, knew how it amused him, so she frequently took that enjoyment away. To punish him.

Joker stared around at the bare, off-white walls, listening to the ticking clock fixed to the wall opposite him.

The hands ticked past nine o'clock. Leland was late. Leland, who held punctuality in such high regard, yelling at interns and guards alike for their tardiness, was making him wait. Deliberately.

 _Joke's on you, Leland. I'm just gonna take a nap._

Before he could even close his eyes, the door opened with a bang. Dr. Leland waltzed in, with Dr. Jackson Phelps following closely at her heels. Leland pulled up a chair with a confident flourish. This was her room, her domain, even if the incompetent intern was supposedly running the show.

Joker preferred to think of Phelps as a puppet, with Leland pulling at his apron strings.

"Mr. Phelps! You came back!" Joker flashed a smile of red content. He'd really hoped he'd seen the last of the Bore of Princeton. Phelps, who according to the other interns, possessed a ridiculously high IQ. The young doctor, whose test scores were apparently off the charts, was duller than the walls surrounding them. No personality or sense of humor.

"Dr. Phelps!" the intern corrected him and took a seat beside Leland.

Humans liked to define themselves, and one another. Like giving someone a name, or a label, helped understand them a little better. Or giving them a new, pristine title could make them stand out above the rest. Make this pimply little boy seem more like a man.

"Dr. Phelps then!" Joker leaned back in his seat as much as his restraints allowed. This was going to be a long forty-five minutes. They brought in such academic bores to try and cure him. He almost preferred ECT, at least it stimulated something, and left him feeling like he'd been beaten in the fight of his life.

"How are you finding the new medication?" Dr. Phelps began.

"Tough to swallow." The image of doctors holding him down on the dirty tiled floor, and shoving little white pills into his mouth, sprang to mind.

"And how have you been sleeping?"

"I try not to."

"Why's that?"

"I have these dreams."

Joker knew where this was going. Head doctors loved dreams. They loved to talk about dreams. Analyze dreams. They were obsessed. One of his earlier shrinks had insisted he keep a dream journal. He'd a blast coming up with the bloodiest, most elaborate ways of killing and maiming people. It took the doctor weeks, if not months, to realize he was making it all up.

Dream analysis was pointless. He wanted a new topic.

"What kinds of dreams?"

"Ones where I kill people and get away with it."

"Who do you kill?"

"Whoever makes me mad." Phelps was making him mad. He glowered at him hoping he'd get the message.

"Do you remember who, or why?"

"I remember the blood. Lots and lots of blood. And the eyes." Joker leaned forward just an inch. The chains rattled with the motion. He strained closer. "They say the eyes are the window to the soul."

Phelps swallowed. For a split second he was at a loss of how to continue. He was weakening, a little more hesitant. His eyes fell and scanned his notebook for answers.

Joker could get this little amateur psychology session all wrapped up right now. He glanced over to Leland, to see if she'd reel her intern back in, or leave him to sink a little deeper. Leland didn't budge. Very well. He'd go in for the kill.

Phelps' mouth moved, his brain was a little slower in forming the words. The kid with the genius IQ had reached an impasse. He looked like a golden fish who'd just be taken out of the water bowl.

Leland sat so very still, merely watching.

Oh what the heck, Joker was bored. He leaned forward, straining so hard against his restraints that they groaned under the pressure. He closed the gap between him and Phelps by an inch, the metal pinching at his flesh, but it was worth the response.

Phelps' face was a picture. All the pink drained from his cheeks.

"What do you see when you look into my eyes?" Joker hissed. "A black soul? A soul of a psychopath?"

"I…." All of his training apparently forgotten, Phelps had given up even trying to find answers on the legal pad. Phelps was wriggling on that hook. His eyes dashed to Leland. He wanted out.

"Dr. Quinzel has pretty eyes." Joker threw in a wild card. His wild card. Why not throw a little color into this boring, neutral room?

"I hadn't noticed." Finally, Phelps formed a sentence.

"You're a man aren't you?"

"Mr. J! Enough!" Leland finally stepped in. Her brown eyes firm, her jaw set.

Joker relaxed back in his chair. _Game, set, and match, Mr. Princeton._

"Phelps take a break!" Leland ordered.

"But…," Phelps protested weakly.

"Go!" She didn't even look at him. He'd failed in his task. Without another word the intern practically sprang from his chair and scuttled away.

"Why do you insist on bringing these clowns to see me, Dr. Leland?" Joker posed the question before Phelps had chance to exit. He smiled when the door slammed louder than it needed to. He shouldn't be hearing from Phelps again.

"Really? Clowns? Says the Clown Prince of Crime."

"Touche," Joker grinned, on occasion Leland amused him. "How's Dr. Quinzel settling in?"

"Excuse me?"

"Dr. Quinzel." The Joker's turned his full attention to Leland. "The new intern."

"She's settling in just fine. Why are you interested in Dr. Quinzel?"

"Just making small talk."

"Really?"

Joker shrugged at the question. "I thought you liked it when I talked. Opened up. Isn't that what therapy is all about. What makes me work. Tick…."

Leland sat silently observing him.

"Why don't you bring Dr. Quinzel down here?" Harley was the one person in this drab place, where all the inmates were dressed to look the same, and where one pimply intern blended into the next, who truly engaged him.

"You're in no position to make demands, Mr. J."

"No, but I've scared all your other interns away."

He wanted to see Harley again. Leland, and her damned politics, would keep her away. She, and the medical board, would justify their blatant sexism; Quinzel was an intern, they'd say, and interns had to prove themselves.

"We're done here. Take him back to his cell." Leland exited as Frank and the cronies returned, working to unchain him from one chair and into another.

No matter, Joker would just have to set the cogs in motion to get what he wanted.

Joker always got what he wanted.

* * *

To be continued…


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note – Thanks so much everyone for the continued interest and feedback! Here's chapter 5! Enjoy!

* * *

 **A Darker Shade of Love**

 **Chapter 5**

The alarm clock pierced through the quiet, dark room. Begrudgingly, Harleen reached her hand out from under the warm covers to silence the shrill noise. She blinked and groaned as she stared at the glowing red digits. The sun wasn't even up yet. Well into her second month at Arkham, the early starts were taking their toll. What she wouldn't give for those early days in college, where a lazy lie-in, and a late afternoon lecture, were just part of the course.

Stifling a yawn, Harleen sat up in a bed littered with papers, textbooks, and files. She'd been up late studying. Something that had become routine. She didn't remember going to sleep. Her laptop, and a half-eaten takeout carton, sat on the night stand. Her newly-acquired romance novel sat on top of her books, the shiny cover flecked with dust. She'd been so excited when she'd picked it up from the bookstore, but had neglected to start it. She mentally promised herself a hot bath and a night off when she returned later.

But, for now, she had the day ahead to contend with. She threw off the bed covers much to Spinee's distaste. The dog whined in protest, yet didn't so much as lift an eyelid.

Harleen crossed the bedroom, ignoring the chill that hung in the air. She flicked on the coffeemaker before heading for the shower. She stood under the hot spray washing away a sleep induced fog. Her mind mentally drawing up a to-do list while she shampooed. She had a meeting with Leland to check-in with her progress. A meeting she'd spent the last two nights preparing for.

Her newly-assigned patient was Lila Stark. The former femme fatale, who'd once terrorized Gotham, and killed nearly a dozen men, resided in Arkham Asylum's infirmary, in a permanently vegetative state. A car accident had resulted in major head trauma, leaving Stark unable to move, talk, or kill again.

It was an interesting case in theory. Many believed patients like Stark were gone from the world, completely lacking in awareness, and brain dead; though others, like Leland, believed they were minimally conscious, and still capable of thought, far from brain dead. Harleen had felt honored when Leland appointed her to Stark. Her assignment was to study Stark in order to prove Leland's theory.

Was the former mass murder still capable of conscious thought? Was she aware in the motionless shell of her body? The assignment meant many, long hours spent at Stark's bed side, or in the observation room, analyzing computer screens for the slightest chance of a blip of brain activity.

It also meant Harleen was unable to talk to, or analyze, any of the inmates that were capable of holding a conversation. This led to much ridicule from her fellow interns. They believed Harleen was being 'benched', and sometimes Harleen found it hard not to wonder whether there was a nugget of truth in their teasing.

Still, Harleen was determined to make the best of it. If she did make a breakthrough with Stark, it would do wonders for her career, and her reputation. Not to mention, it may win favor with Leland. So she put in the hours, read up on all studies conducted on patients in a persistent vegetative state, and didn't complain.

Once showered, she dressed quickly, securing her still-damp hair into a tight knot. She grabbed a cup of coffee, and gathered up her files and pages. Ready for another uneventful day.

* * *

Mostly, Arkham's infirmary was a quiet place. Sick, or injured, inmates weren't kept in the hospital bays for longer periods than necessary. Most were patched up, maybe they'd spend a night under observation, and sent back on the general wards.

Only Lila Stark remained as a permanent fixture. Stark had a private room, located at the very far end of the infirmary. Stark's motionless body lay rigid under the neatly folded blankets. Her ashen face was freeze-framed in the eye of her accident. Her eyes, and mouth, wide in a never-ending scream, like she was reliving the car crash over and over.

Stark's stare had made Harleen uneasy to begin with; but now, after spending so many hours at the woman's bedside, she felt only sadness. Patients like Stark were often written off; a life cut short as their minds failed them. Lost, forgotten, and trapped in a useless shell that had abandoned them too. In normal, civilized society, Stark's would have been a sad and regretful case. The woman hadn't even reached thirty. No family came to visit her.

But Stark was a murderer; a cruel, sadistic killer. Most firmly believed she deserved her fate.

Presently, Harleen sat in the observation room, overlooking Stark's bed. Rain poured from the sky, beating against the windows. She sat at the desk, sipping cold coffee, gazing at the computer screen. She took off her glasses, and massaged her temples with her fingertips. She was getting a headache. Her eyes stung from staring at the monitor, and her back and legs hurt from sitting for so long.

It was late. Most of the doctors and office personnel had gone home hours ago. Though Leland had scheduled a meeting last week, to discuss Harleen's progress, she had cancelled. Harleen had no reason to stay. She could go home and crack open her novel.

A knock sounded at the door, and Riggs pushed it open. He smiled as he entered. He often came to visit at the start of his late shifts, she appreciated the company. It wasn't like her fellow interns came to check on her progress as they chose to exclude her from their group.

"How's it going?" Riggs asked.

Harleen sighed heavily. "It's not."

"Figured you could use this?" Riggs set a takeout cup in front of her.

"Thanks!" Harleen took a grateful sip of a pumpkin spice latte with cream and cinnamon. The sweet treat was purchased at a local café, and a far cry from the muck the coffee machines spewed out.

"Leland still got you on the bench I see." He joked lightly but as much as she tried to deny it that was pretty much how she felt at times.

"It could be worse," she joked back. "Stark's a really good listener."

"Can I ask you something?" He pulled up a chair next to her.

"Sure." She took another long, grateful sip of good coffee.

"Why did you decide to go into psychiatry? Here, I mean. At Arkham?"

Arkham, and its notorious reputation, put a lot of trainee doctors off. It took a special kind of person to work here. Most people were surprised to learn Harleen had gone as far as volunteering to come here.

Harleen shrugged, the answer, to her at least, was simple. "I wanted to help people. People most had given up on."

"Do you really think you can help these kinds of people? Get through to them?"

"You don't?"

Riggs' brow furrowed, "I've been here a long time. Seen these people at their best and worst. And honestly, their best ain't much prettier."

Harleen smiled; she liked Riggs' honesty. They might not always agree, but Tim Riggs was the only person she ever got a straight answer from at Arkham. And for a girl who pretty much wore her heart on her sleeve, and who couldn't lie if her life depended on it, she appreciated it.

"I'd like to think I can get through to them. Some of them. Even one," she laughed a little. She'd be called an optimist, an idealist, and maybe she was. But she believed in herself and her training. "I became a doctor to help people."

Riggs smiled. "Okay, I got to get started. Let me know if you need anything."

"Sure, thanks."

Riggs was barely out of his seat when the uproar exploded.

The old, creaky building went from eerily quiet to a beacon of activity at the click of a button. Alarms rang out. Lights blinked and whirled. Shouts could be heard down the corridors. Orders from the guards; shrieks, and roars, from the inmates.

"Oh hell," Riggs uttered under his breath.

Harleen sprang to her feet, bumping her knee against the table. It hurt but she didn't care.

"What do we do?" she asked quietly. Riggs, always so calm and professional, didn't seem fazed by the turn of events. He was a true soldier in this fight against the crazy men and women of Arkham. This wasn't the first rumble of trouble for him. But for Harleen, who'd never been in this situation, it sent her into a full panic.

"Stay in here! Turn of the lights and lock the doors. Don't let anyone in."

Harleen nodded. She could do that.

"You ever fired a gun?"

"What?" Her eyes widened when she saw the weapon he offered in his outstretched hand. "No. Never."

Riggs clicked off the safety. He handed it to her. "Just point and shoot."

Harleen took the weapon from him, staring down at the metal. The weight of the situation hung in the air. She'd never fired a gun. Never imagined having to think about firing one. Not even when she'd been granted her internship.

"Harleen? You with me?" he asked urgently. This was about survival and his firm stare told her that.

"Yeh. I'm fine.

"Stay here, and stay quiet. If anyone gets in, don't hesitate. Hesitation gets you killed."

Harleen nodded again, she willed herself not to cry. He had a job to do, and he couldn't be worrying about her. She was strong and capable. Though, in that moment, she didn't necessarily believe it.

"Lock the door behind me," Riggs reminded her before exiting the room. He caught her gaze, "I'll come back, I promise."

Harleen smiled at him. She hoped she looked confident. She felt like a bag of jangled nerves.

After he'd left she followed his orders, turning the lock, and flicking off the lights. She moved hesitantly to the computer monitor and switched that off too. From the observation window she could see Stark's form resting in the bed.

Gun in hand, Harleen crouched on the floor in the furthest corner of the little room. She rested her head against the wall, and tried to concentrate on her breathing. For the first time since she'd entered through the asylum's gates she felt afraid. Afraid and powerless. All she could do for now was wait. In the darkness.

* * *

Chaos was gathering speed, carried on the shoulders of the madmen who'd breached their cells. Joker laughed. He laughed long and loud. He didn't care if he attracted attention. He lay on his bed, staring upwards. His hands were folded neatly on his stomach, listening to the storm raging indoors. This was his show. The doctors, and the guards, knew it even if they did try to deny it.

There were no clocks in his cell, and yet he could tell the time perfectly. He timed the course of each day through staff changes, meals, and drug rounds. The riot had stirred into action just as the late shift began.

He saw Officer Frank, and his Neanderthals appear like clockwork. They'd had to begin their shift on red alert. They scuttled into the center of the maximum security zone to ensure all the cells were locked and secured. Satisfied there was no imminent threat in zone one, Frank radioed in over a crackling frequency.

Joker smiled as they jogged on by. They were unaware he was watching. Too intent in going to lend a hand elsewhere. Joker swung his legs over the bend and bounced up to his feet. Excitement overtook him. They didn't know what was coming. But he did.

He waltzed over to the glass. He wanted to see Frank's face when the shit hit the fan.

Many hours had been spent cooking up this little fiasco, and nudging it into motion. Whispering nuggets of evil, subtly and stealthily, neither of which came easy to Joker, to the cannibal. Influencing him to work against his own interests. Joker hadn't had to work too hard in pushing the poor, unhinged cellmate over the edge of the abyss.

It was the oh-so- fragile cannibal who'd started the riot. Joker knew it. The guards didn't, not just yet. The cannibal was free; how careless, such an oversight. Joker tutted audibly over the guards' incompetence. It was so easy and convenient to be surrounded by pawns and futility.

He'd called in a few favors, offered a few bribes to the less-than-saintly guards who loved to make a fat wad on the side.

Joker laughed again. Much to his pleasure, young Officer Dennings turned at the noise. He paled when his eyes met with Joker's. Seeing Joker standing at the glass, Denning's gestured to Frank. Old, balding, Frankie Boy turned in response.

 _5, 4, 3, 2, 1._

 _Show time._

All the lights went out. The room hung in a black, breathless, hush, before all the secured doors opened. Joker's grin spread, his door opened. The little red light flicked to green, and that's when Frank caught on. Cuss words died in the air, Joker strutted toward the dim-witted troll.

Time to make his next move. But not before he settled an old score.

* * *

Riggs raced from the infirmary to the control center. In event of emergency this was the sergeant's first point of call. The best place to lead, and manage, the dire situation.

The security station was a beehive of activity; guards at the work stations, and guards on the phones. Fortunately, at least for now, the inmates hadn't penetrated beyond the wards.

"What happened?" Riggs barked to the nearest officer.

"He got out?"

"Who got out?" Riggs demanded. His mind immediately flashed to Joker. Since Carly's death he'd been looking, and waiting, for his time.

"Hester! Martin Hester!"

"The Cannibal?" Riggs digested the information. Still not ideal, but better than most. Hester was dangerous, but given his size, and the strength of his medication, he was slow. "How did that happen?"

"He got out of his restraints while on the way back from the therapy suite," a surveillance tech supplied.

"The guards escorting him?"

"Dead, sir. It wasn't pretty."

Damn! Riggs didn't need to know the horrifying details. He'd seen photographs of Hester's unfortunate family members. He didn't want to think of good officers, good men sharing that fate. He pushed those thoughts away, he'd mourn the loss of good friends later. For now, all he could do for them was get the situation under control. Get Hester locked up.

"Do we know where he is?"

"Negative!"

"We got bigger problems," another surveillance officer, to Riggs' right, called out. He pointed to Camera A. Camera A was always focused on the max security ward. Camera A offered a dismal sight.

There were no signs of the inmates on the screen. All the cells were wide open. The men were gone, and destruction lay in their wake.

"Oh hell!" Riggs grabbed the radio. "Officer Frank, do you read me?" Nothing but static. "Officer Frank, do you copy?"

"This is Officer Dennings," the young officer murmured weakly over the frequency.

"Dennings? What's happening down there?"

"Someone disabled the security doors in zones one and two. They're out! Joker's out! Officer Frank is dead." The younger man's voice was haunted by what he'd witnessed.

"You hurt?"

"I'll live," Dennings replied cynically. Riggs suspected, right now, he didn't fell to happy with the prospect of going on when his colleagues lay dead in front of him.

Riggs digested that piece of information. "Hold tight, Dennings!"

"Get hold of Commisioner Gordon!" Riggs barked. "Get as many bodies here as you can. We're going to need them."

* * *

The wait felt like an eternity. Harleen stared at the clock, its hands slowly ticking away the minutes. Thunder rumbled on outside, rain coated the ground. Winds wiped through the trees, and branches taped against the glass. Harleen decided she'd rather be out there, in the dark, wet, night.

Inside the building no one was safe. The storm of guards versus inmates raged on. She didn't know who was winning.

Harleen wondered where the infirmary's doctors and nurses were. Though most had left for the evening, she knew there was a skeleton staff to cover the nights. There was still Lila Stark to care for. Maybe the night staff were holed up in another room close by. If there was, she hoped they were safe and unscathed.

Occasionally, her line of sight travelled to Stark. The hospital apparatus illuminated the woman's grayish skin. Stark remained rigid beneath the covers. The woman dreamed on oblivious, and not for the first time that evening, Harleen envied her.

She thought she heard something above her. She told herself she was being paranoid; the sounds had to be coming from outside the room. The whole asylum was alive with noise. She was perfectly safe. But she didn't feel it. Or believe it. She looked up at the paneled ceiling.

She strained her ears. Was someone above her? In the ceiling?

Her heart hammered at the thought. She'd let her mind drive to a place that there was no going back from. No matter how much she tried to stay rational now, she'd planted the seed, and it was growing.

The thumping sounds grew louder, and the ceiling panels curved under the weight of whoever was above. She hadn't imagined that. Her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.

Harleen pressed her hand to her mouth, afraid of her involuntary whimpers would give her away.

Thump! Thump!

The footsteps were heavy, and purposeful. Whoever was up there wasn't hiding. They weren't trying to conceal their presence.

Harleen crawled closer to the locked door. If the person above was hostile she wanted to be close to the only available escape route.

"I can smell you!"

The statement, and the words, caused Harleen's heart to leap up into her throat.

"Little piggy!"

Feet stomped down on the floor above. They were trying to break through. There was no other way down, at least not a quick way, and it didn't seem like the person wanted to wait. A loud crunch of wood and plaster, and the ceiling gave way.

Harleen screamed as the figure fell with a crash. The man, dressed in the same orange attire as the other inmates, got to his feet, dusting of plaster and rubble.

By some tiny glimmer of fortune, he'd landed on the other side of the observation window. But she knew she was in trouble. He approached the glass, and she knew who she was up against.

"So pretty!" He pressed his hands, and his face, against the glass of the observation room. The cannibal; everyone referred to him as the cannibal. His name was Martin Hester. A small man, nearing fifty, with thinning hair, and beady eyes.

She'd read about him. Studied his case at college. He'd killed and eaten his whole family. He'd justified his exploits in court, he swore he couldn't control his urge, and the judge had ruled him criminally insane. He'd been sentenced to a lifetime at Arkham.

Hester was prone to severe bouts of depression; he'd expressed remorse for killing his family on many occasion. He'd been put on suicide watch more than once. With a carefully controlled cocktail of medication, and bi-weekly sessions of ECT, Hester had mellowed somewhat.

Unsteadily, Harleen pulled up to her feet. He'd seen her; all she could do now was try to reason with him. She knew it was the anniversary of his family's deaths. She knew he was sensitive around this time of year. It was her job to try to reach out to him. That's what she'd wanted to do since she'd arrived at Arkham. To talk to people and help them. And now, when it counted most, this was her chance.

"Martin. Can I call you Martin?" She moved slowly to the glass barrier that separated them. He ignored her so she continued. "It's okay, Martin. My name is Dr. Quinzel."

"I know. I know." His voice was almost a hiss. He pressed his fingers to the glass. "So pretty. Good enough to eat."

Harleen swallowed down her fear as best she could. She needed to keep calm and focused. She searched through memories of her training. She'd been taught how to conduct herself in a therapy session. She'd been taught about body language, posing open-ended questions, keeping all discussions focused around the patient, keeping the boundary of patient and doctor firmly in place.

She was the doctor, and he was the patient. Though being this close with a killer, it was hard to think about anything other than the way he was licking his lips and pressing his body up against the glass. He made no attempt to hide his intentions. In his mind he was the hunter and she was the prey. All he needed to do was pass the barricade.

"Let me in," Hester whined.

"Martin, I…," Harleen faltered. He had this look in his eye that she didn't trust.

"I didn't mean to do it. Didn't mean to hurt them."

"I know, Martin. I know."

"I just couldn't help myself." He licked his lips again.

One of the interns here had mentioned Hester had filed his teeth into sharp points. Seeing him up close, Harleen knew it was true. She tried not to look at his mouth, his teeth. She tried to remain calm and focused.

"I understand, okay. We can talk about it."

Martin smiled at her, "you're scared of me. You think I'm a monster."

"I…." Harleen's sentence died on her lips as he banged hard on the glass. She let out a scream and staggered back.

"I can smell the fear. It's intoxicating." He lifted his nose to the ceiling and inhaled deeply. "Do you know what I miss the most Dr. Quinzel?"

"No," Harleen was afraid to know the answer. "What do you miss?"

"The blood." He looked at her again. His eyes were black with hunger. "The taste of it."

She was losing him. The gun was heavy in her hand. Point and shoot. Hesitation got you killed. Could she bring herself to use it if necessary? She'd never thought about having to, needing to, for her own survival. She'd never imagined being pushed into a situation where she had to make the choice between her life and someone else's.

Hester's mouth gaped open. There was only one thing on his mind. He pressed his whole body weight against the window. With a hefty lunge, he crashed through the glass.

Harleen dashed towards the door and he followed. He grabbed her by the arm and, with brute strength she didn't know he possessed, threw her into the center of the room.

She landed in a heap, her shoulder pulsing in agony. Ignoring the pain, she pulled to her feet and darted behind the desk. She still had hold of Riggs's gun, and with a table between them, she felt ever so slightly more like she had a chance.

"You don't want to hurt me, Martin."

"No, no," Hester spoke in such a soft voice it was hard to believe what he was capable of. Though his involuntary actions gave his true motive away. He licked his lips again. His eyes glazed with hunger.

"Martin, I can help you. You don't want to do this."

"So hungry…. I can't help it…." His eyes were vacant, his mouth curled into an animalistic sneer, and a line of silver drool made its way down his chin. He rested his hands, curled into tight fists, on the table.

Hester vaulted the table and Harleen staggered back. Her shoulders banged against the filing cabinets behind her.

"Martin," Harleen stepped aside and he followed. "Martin, please."

Hester quickened in his pace while Harleen continued to draw herself away. Tears blinded her as she raised the gun. She hadn't wanted to use it.

"You aren't going to do it little girl." He backhanded her, his knuckles connecting with her cheek, and sending her glasses across the room. "You don't have it in you otherwise you'd have done it already."

Hester leapt forward, ripping the gun from her grasp, before sending both of them to the floor. Words failed her. His full body weight crushed her to the carpet. Air became an issue, pinned under a two-hundred-pound man.

His teeth sank down into her neck and Harleen screamed. From the corner of her eye she could see red blood staining the white of her doctor's coat.

 _I don't want to die._

Harleen struggled. The gun. The gun lay mere itching from where they'd landed. If she could just reach the gun she'd show him she had the guts to use. She stretched her arm as far as she could. She couldn't reach the gun, not yet, but she could fight.

Fight, and bide her time. Move and reach the gun. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all she had. She kicked, she scratched, she gave it all she had.

"Don't fight it," Hester hissed, his mouth covered with her blood.

Harleen struggled harder. She bucked, and she thrashed. Instinct took over. She wasn't going to die alone, at the hands of Martin Hester.

She head-butted his nose and it cracked under the force of the blow. She felt some sense of satisfaction as she saw his blood running profusely down his face.

With a loud groan, Hester brought his hands to his broken nose. Harleen seized that opportunity. She scrambled from beneath him. She moved for the gun. She stooped down to get it, her fingertips grazed its cool metal.

She didn't get the chance to pick it up.

Hester's hand wrapped around her ankle, with all his might he sent her flying. Her head connected with the corner of the desk. She tasted her own blood, her vision blurred, and she fell back to the floor.

Everything went black for a few blissful moments. Then she was back in the room. Back with Hester, the cannibal. He was on top of her, pinning her down with his weight. His hands were wrapped around her wrists. The gun was gone. She couldn't move underneath him.

Hester brought his sharpened teeth to her throat again. Harleen's sobs died on her lips.

But his bite never pierced her skin.

A shot, and the spark of a bullet, rang out across the blackened room. Martin Hester's body stilled in its activity before going limp and heavy. Harleen held her breath. She was afraid to breathe.

Harleen heard him before she could see him.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" His laughter filled the now silent room.

Harleen pushed Hester off her body, and he landed beside her with a thump. His beady eyes were wide in frozen surprise.

She scrambled unsteadily to her feet, weak from lack of blood and spent adrenaline. She'd lost her glasses in the struggle, but could make out the vivid green hair in the darkness.

Through intermittent flashes of lightening, she saw his pale fingers wrapped around the gun. It wasn't pointed at her.

Joker stood in front of her wearing a wide grin.

"You're a fighter. I like that."

* * *

To be continued….


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note – Here's the latest chapter! Sorry it's been a longer than planned! It's Harley and Joker only, so I hope you like it!

* * *

 **A Darker Shade of Love**

 **Chapter 6**

 _Insanity is freedom from a mind damaged beyond repair_

The gun shot pierced through the darkness, rendering the room silent. Blood blossomed and stained the chest of his orange shirt. All the fight left Hester's body in an instant. The cannibal's weight slacked, threatening to crush her. Harleen pushed back against him. This time she found no resistance.

The man who'd just tried to kill her was dead, and she was alive. A small glimmer of victory.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Harleen's relief was short lived. The laugh was unmistakable. Her savior, Hester's killer, was none other than the Joker. He'd killed someone, a fellow inmate no less, in order to save her. Crazy! Though she didn't yet know what his intentions were. Did he intend to kill her too?

Fear tickled its cold fingers at the back of her neck. She wasn't going to wait, pinned under Hester, to find out. Hastily, she nudged the body off herself. In her movements she felt the wet, stickiness of blood on her skin. She shuddered, wiping her hands on her once-pristine coat.

Hester landed beside her with a small thud. Black, beady eyes stared coldly at her. She'd never forget them; never forget them as they glared at her hungrily. Reaching a hand forward she closed those eyes.

At the sound of his approaching footsteps, she scrambled to her feet. Her doctor's coat was stained with blood; hers and Hester's. The thought sent a fresh wave of dizzying nausea through her, and it made her knees go weak. She reached for the wall in effort to steady herself.

She had the new arrival to contend with.

Even in the blacked-out room she could make out the vivid green hair. The intermittent flashes of lighting outside unveiled the gun wrapped in ivory fingers. His painted, red smile was wide and fixed.

She noted that the gun wasn't pointed at her. He let it hang casually at his side. Harlem didn't feel any less uneasy. She knew Joker didn't need a gun to be dangerous. He didn't need to possess a weapon to be considered a threat. He was resourceful; his files detailed the many ways in which he'd killed his victims. They weren't always clean or quick. He'd been known to use whatever supplies were close at hand. Sometimes the results were messy.

A pen, used like it was a dagger, lay embedded in a dead man's throat. She'd seen pictures of men who'd fell victim to his chemically-laced grenades. A psychopath, with an advanced knowledge of chemistry, didn't make for light, bedtime reading. Harleen attempted to banish the memories of the gruesome photographs contained in his ever-growing file.

"You're a fighter. I like that."

She supposed he meant it as a compliment. Glass crunched under his feet as he moved ever closer. In a beat she darted behind the desk she'd sat at mere hours before. The cheap, flimsy, fold-out table wasn't much but it made her feel marginally safer.

"And smart too!" He moved casually toward the door and flicked on the lights. "Ah! That's better!"

After spending so long being suspended in darkness, the harsh, fluorescent lights blinded her. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the brightness, waiting for the blurry feeling of disorientation to dispel.

Slowly she lowered her arm. He stood in front of her. The Joker in all his glory. Green hair, crazy eyes, and an exaggerated, glowing, metallic smile. He was the stuff of nightmares. The terror Gotham tried not to think about. She was all alone with him. Her heart hammered in her ears. Her fear only rose higher as he moved toward the desk.

"Think you dropped these." He set her glasses on the wooden space between them.

"Thank you," she muttered. He watched quietly as she put them on. Her hand shook with the simple, everyday task and his smile widened. He was basking in her horror, and she felt sick her stomach.

"You don't look so good, Doc." He cocked his head. "You look a little green."

"I've lost some blood," Harleen tried to keep the anxiety from her voice.

"You should probably see a doctor."

"Yes!" She was quick to seize the opportunity, hoping to appeal to his slight hint of concern. "I probably should."

"Yes, then that's settled! But, first thing's first!" In a swift motion he pulled an upturned chair from its haphazard place on the floor. He set it down in front of the desk, sitting down, and crossing his legs casually at the ankles. She remained rooted to the spot. "Please, sit. I've worked hard to get us this little meeting."

Alarm swirled within her. What did he mean? Was the riot of his doing? A crazy notion, or maybe, it was the truth.

"Sit!" he barked.

She saw crazed danger burning in his eyes and wordlessly settled into her own chair. She was almost glad to get off her feet. Her shoulder hurt, and though her the wound on her neck had stopped bleeding, she felt weak.

Harleen pushed aside thoughts of her injury and discomfort, focusing on Joker. He was enjoying this, in amongst the riot and the darkness, he seemed so at ease. The situation in this room was absurd. It looked like an impromptus therapy session. Though he still had the gun in his possession.

"You're a difficult woman to arrange a meeting with Dr. Quinzel?"

"Meaning?"

"I invited you to come see me." He answered simply, as if it was obvious. There was a trace of irritation in his voice.

She opened her mouth to explain. As if it was as easy as waltzing into a secure wing, and demanding to speak with him. She was an intern; there were procedures and rules to follow. Not to mention Leland to win over. But he knew all that; that wasn't what she wanted to go over.

"The roses?"

"So you do remember." His eyes brightened with his ever-present smile. "And you kept it a secret. I was happy to know you like to keep secrets."

"But how?" Harleen sat up a little straighter, wanting to know how he got out to deliver the roses. Was it that easy for him to wander around the asylum. He'd gained access to her office. And he'd made his way here tonight. The thought was both terrifying and intriguing. "How did you get through all the security?"

"Ah ah ah." He wagged his finger. The trickster wasn't telling. "A good magician never reveals all of his secrets."

"But…." Before she could finish, he cut her off.

"Focus on the important things. Time is precious." He looked up at the ceiling, straining to hear what was going on outside the infirmary walls. "They'll be coming soon enough."

Harleen listened hard; the alarms weren't ringing any longer. The shouts, and the struggling, had diminished to a rumbling echo.

"Stay with me, Doctor. A lot of planning went into this," Joker showed his hand, and waited for Harleen's attention to center on him again.

"You planned this? Caused this?" She chanced the questions. She didn't expect him to admit to it. His reply surprised her.

"I may have had a little to do with it." He was being modest, and it was clear that modesty didn't sit well with him. His smile burst with the punchline. "And by a little, I mean a lot."

"Why?" Harleen digested the bitter information. "Why did you want to see me?" She looked at him again.

"I felt a connection."

"I see."

"Do you? Did you?"

He moved closer to her. It was no more than an inch but it was enough to make Harleen feel on edge once again. Her heart drummed almost painfully. Her eyes kept falling to the gun resting in his lap.

"Did I what?" she ventured trying to keep up with his wandering mind.

"Did you feel a connection?"

"I…," She was at a loss. She didn't want to enrage him. She was really trying not to look at the weapon. If he thought she was focused on the weapon rather than him he may close down, or get the urge to fire the gun.

But it wasn't just that. He was talking. Joker was conversing with her so openly. She was engaging with the Joker, the cagey, cunning patient few managed to get more than a handful of words from.

She was playing a dangerous game. But she didn't want to stop.

"Are you afraid of me, Doctor?"

"Yes!" Then, on second thought, in effort to maintain a shred of professionalism, she added, "a little."

"That's smart!" He smiled that smile again. He seemed to like what he'd heard; she guessed it was the right answer. It was honest. Direct. Spoken with conviction. She could still die tonight. She sat across the table, in front of a ticking time bomb. She figured he would see through any lies she attempted to supply. The truth was her best, and safest option. At least for now.

"I saved your life," he reminded her after a beat.

"Why?" That was what she didn't understand, but she wanted to. By all the reports she'd read, Joker seemed to be the perfect example of a sociopath. He cared for no one, he was devoid of empathy. He killed and destroyed everything in his path, and he didn't care.

"Does it matter?" He threw the question out there with a mere shrug of his shoulders. It was evident he hadn't given it a moment's thought.

"Yes! Yes, it matters!" Another human being was dead. It might not matter to the Joker; he probably considered Hester, and maybe Harleen, as collateral damage. That was part of the world that existed for him. He might not possess a conscience, but she did.

"The cannibal used to eat my food."

"That's it? That's why you killed him?" Harleen asked incredulously.

Joker shrugged, "well, that, and you were the more favorable choice to survive. You're far prettier."

She couldn't speak, she felt sick and disgusted. He had no regard for human life. His eyes remained dark and fixed.

"You don't trust me." Judging by the shadow forming across his pale face that seemed to sting a little.

"Should I?" She motioned to the gun, settled in his lap.

"Ah. The gun." He set it down on the table and pushed it in her direction. "Take it if it makes you feel better."

Harleen didn't think twice; she reached forward and picked up the gun. "You're not afraid I'll shoot you?"

"Do it!" Joker pulled up from his seat, standing square in front of her. Making himself a big, easy target. "Though it would be immensely unfair as I saved your life."

"You're a killer!"

"So put me down!" His voice rose for the first time that night. His gaze was fixed and determined. Dark. Wild. Challenging.

Not for the first time that night, Harleen hesitated. He was a killer. She wasn't. She didn't have it in her to kill someone who'd saved her. Try as she might to tell herself he was a murder; he'd saved her life. That meant something to her.

"You don't have it in you."

"So, I've been told." She thought of how she'd failed to use the gun against Hester. But while she lay pinned beneath the ravenous cannibal, fighting to survive, she'd felt a furious determination burning beneath her skin. She'd never felt that way before; it was alien, instinctive, powerful. If she'd managed to get up from under Hester, if the Joker hadn't entered on to the scene, she wasn't completely convinced she wouldn't have killed Hester with her bare hands.

Hester had pushed her to the brink; she'd wanted to push back.

Harleen pushed the unwelcomed, frightening thoughts down into a murky depth of her mind that she didn't want to acknowledge. Certainly not now, not in front of the Joker, and his beaming, critical eyes.

"You're wrong," she challenged. She wanted to wipe that smug certainty from his face; another urge that sprang up from a dark, unchartered place.

"Am I?" He was still standing, arms spread wide, in front of her. "Or are you fooling yourself? Lying to yourself? You're a little girl, lost in the big, bad world of men and monsters." His voice was low, his smile wide and mocking.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know the first thing about me."

"You'd be surprised. You're not the first wide-eyed, idealistic doctor to have ever walked through those gates." Joker cocked his head, his crimson smile darkened with a mischievous tint. "You know, Doc, life gets a whole lot more fun when you stop trying to make everyone else happy. When you stop trying to do the right thing, when everyone around you is bending the rules, and getting ahead of you. When you stop worrying about what the others think. When you stop caring and start living.

"I used to be like you, Dr. Quinzel. Follow the rules, work hard, blah blah blah. I thought all the work and effort would pay off. That I'd be recognized. Rewarded. Didn't happen. People chew you up and spit you out. You know, I had a real blast when I stopped giving a damn. When I started focusing on me and what I wanted."

Harleen lifted the gun and cocked it. She'd heard enough. She wasn't like him. Not one bit.

"That's not nice, Doc," Joker laughed at her threat. He still didn't want to take her seriously.

"Maybe I'll call your bluff," she said, and cursed that her voice didn't sound stronger.

"You don't have it in you to fire that thing," he repeated.

"You sure about that?" Despite the thundering of her heart, she kept the gun trained on him. Her hands were shaking and he was still grinning.

"Do it! I've seen you when your survival instinct kicks up a notch. It was a hoot."

He was mocking her and she hated it. She was stronger than most gave her credit for. She squeezed the trigger and blasted a whole through the plastic chair he'd been sitting on minutes ago. The chair fell back on to the hard floor with a thump.

Smoke billowed around the ugly yellow hole of the plastic chair. A shadow of doubt, and maybe awe, crossed his pale face, and Harleen felt her own smile tickled at her frown. A swell of satisfaction passed through her as she realized she'd shocked him.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" Joker smacked his hands together. "I like you more and more with every ticking second. Whew Doc! You got my heart going a little." He pressed his hand to his chest. His eyes shone with amusement. He was enjoying this. Toying with her. Pushing her, until she pushed back.

"Still think I don't have it in me, Mr. J?"

"To take a life?" He shook his head firmly, decisively. "No, but I think I was right. You're going to be a whole lot of fun."

Harleen's reply was lost on her lips as she heard the sounds of voices on the other side of the door. The guards were here.

"And things were just getting interesting," Joker muttered.

* * *

To be continued….


End file.
